The Damn Dog
by Ironed Maidens
Summary: When Ilicore's father suddenly changes for the worst, his life follows. If a cure is possible for whatever omen that has befallen his father, he will get it. But just how far into the unknown dangers of Nirn is he willing to go?
1. Interval

The Damn Dog.

Sect 1: Interval

Across the mountainous forges of northern Hammerfell, and up through Dragonstar into the only section of High Rock not cut off by the Illiac river of Adal'am, the grasslands of High Rock were swept about in a forwarding motion, almost beckoning a draft of clamor with it through dilution and calmness. The ghastly greystone chapels standing out in protruding warfare amongst the hills, their bells chiming lightly in the wind and their boards creaking with the weight of the priests and savants that caressed their halls with joyous ceremonies of faith and gospel, the sky blended the gray buildings into its ever-more eye. Past the lakes and prairies of the rich soil, northward more past Thorkan and into the badlands, just north of Old Gate, there was a small town not marked on the maps and not densely traversed. A town called Iremar. In this town, prosperous with a small farm and a lively market, there was a baron of the land. His name was Ilicore Stovarn of Stormhelm and he lived in a grand manor that dwarfed any other building in the town. It had tall peaking roofs and a lush garden in the back that had a local river running right through it. The windows were tall and thin, allowing pure light to flood the halls, quarters, and galleys. There were fine statues of granite and onyx that lined the landscaping, tall golden fountains that bid their warming calls in the sunlight, and full, ripe trees with juicy and abundant fruits. The estate was the gem of the badlands, and the people were happy with it. All was fine and boastful for the servants and retainers that laundered the estate and the permanent residents were joyful as well. This went on for some time, as messengers went to and fro carrying transactions and gold from one place to the estate and back again. There was, however, only one problematic kink in the clockwork euphoria of the town. And that was Nathorn Stovarn of Stormhelm. The baron's father.

Ilicore himself was, indeed, a middle-aged man and was, indeed, void of family. To account for his gap, he had his father move in with him years before. At first, it was fine. His father would go around town, jostling and laughing with the folks, telling jokes and buying rounds of ale for the workers after their tedious shifts in the farm and around the muddy grasslands. But suddenly, one day, and for no apparent reason at all, he stopped bounding himself around town; he quit visiting the grand garden at noon to sit on his favorite stone bench amongst the Poppies and Iornband flowers. His eyes grew weary, his skin was left paled, and his smile…his smile that could ignite a crowd…it withered away into a sour mix of epiphany and delusion. Ilicore became depressed and worried, fearing that his father may be sick and dying. He ordered for the best doctors come in from Daggerfall and try to mend his father. They tried, all of them. But none could find anything wrong with him physically. Emotionally, however, he was ecstatic and sporadic and even a bit lustful. He would place objects around his room in stacks and in odd designs. With no luck for his father's well-being of mind in sight, the baron stopped tending to his land. He let his glorious garden die and crumble away. He let the cries of his people go unheard when a famine of Rock-Joint spread through the entire providence. He let the farm die down and the herds of livestock diminish. He even allowed his people; the same people that once loved him and that he loved back; to leave. He actually almost forced their decision upon them. He cared less for the world. Instead he bound his face into books of how to cure his father. Books about what could cause such a disturbance in his attitude, in his soul. After much reading, he finally gave up. Winter was upon the land and he had only seen his father get worse. Things happened in far reaches of his manor, his manor that was blighted with broken window panes and loose bricks and holes in the ceiling and overgrown weeds and broken statues and an overall feel of desolation. Things he shuttered to imagine. Odd noises, but more than that; odd feels and smells, they came from everywhere. His servants had all left, all but a few. These were the ones either too afraid to leave, for fear of Nathorn and his wild mind, or those that had no place else to go.

After a night of dancing with a few bottles of the finest imported Mead, Ilicore packed up his things and sent off for a coach to take him and his father to neighboring Normar Heights. While he was waiting for the coach, it began to snow lightly. He looked out of his favorite window. It sat atop the central spire of the manor, a stained glass window of a white bird flying above a field of bright flowers and a placid river. The top part of the window had been shattered right before he forced the people of his town out. A small riot, or more like parting gift, had been issued by the people. Many rocks were thrown and a few of the more magely citizens cast fire spells at his vast, vacant home. He looked down and thought for a moment to jump, but a knock on the door of his office, the room in which the window was situated in, jumped him back into reality…or what he could tell of reality. The Mead was hitting him harder and harder every moment that passed. It was the last servant he ever hired, Jaustine. She was young with soft brown hair and soft brown eyes, her light skin contrasting them into a beautiful radiance of majestic triumph. She had to speak with him, a slight worry in her voice. His father was asleep. Curious as to why this was a problem, she informed him that he hadn't slept in days. He counted it off as his father simply wearing himself out and bid her off, but not before reaching into the slender birch desk that sat in his office. He pulled out a small leather sack of five-hundred Septims. He told her to take off with it and never look back. He never cared to know what had happened to her, as it was off of his conscience. He walked past her without acknowledging her praise and wandered the littered halls for a while, stopping to look at the papers and mugs and spoons and torn cloths that piled around the once angelic and lively and bright gem of the badlands. He sat down on a ravished couch; its fine velvet coat stripped off and looted. He began to sob heavily, his belongings that he had left were close at is feet. It all fit into two small piles bound in by Imp muscle. He cried and sniffled for a while until his father interrupted. He ran into the wall right in front of the door to the room Ilicore was in. Ilicore jumped and quickly gathered himself. With a sturdy hand, he led his father down the chipped stone steps of the manor, out into the frigid world of snow and gray clouds. A carriage was there; the horses it was drawn by were gallant and silver, their manes fading into the serine white background. With a last look back at his past, Ilicore took in the sights of the destructed town around him. He momentarily saw the houses and his manor all rebuild again, the people walking the streets with their fur coats on, laughing and drinking warm ales. He sunk his head low and dragged his father into the carriage with him, knowing his vision was but a dream of what he whished could have stayed true to him. The ride to Normar Heights was daunting and solemn. His father spoke not a word the whole day-and-a-half's ride there, he only looked down onto the carpeting of the coach, which was bright red with a swirling oceanic pattern on it. Ilicore took in the sight of his mantilla, his life that was perishing and his father's mind which was closely following.

Once they reached Normar Heights, Illicore paid the runner a handful of gold and bid hin a good day. The winds had picked up over the past few hours and the sky became blackened with darker clouds. Ilicore pursed his thinly-knit fur coat's collar closer to his neck. He sighed heavily as the coach pulled away and he watched a ghostly white trail of steam grasp out to the heavens from his mouth. It lingered in the air for a few moments before dissipating. He walked with his luggage and his father close next to him through the hazy and quite vacant streets of Normar Heights. There was a town pool right ahead of the town gates that was frozen over, acting as a mirror, reflecting the depressed vision of Ilicore and his father in their idle thinking as they walked past it. The black-gray cobbles of the street were slippery and icy, and it was hard to concentrate on so many things at once without falling or letting his father fall. The dead trees that lined the middles of the streets and that nestled in the fronts of the houses and taverns all danced in the wind, a low grumbling howl bellowing from the throat of Nirn itself. They reached a small white building on the eastern end of town that was on the corner. A few cats scurried by into the alley right beside it, disappearing into a crack in the wall adjacent to the house, into the cellar of the tavern it was reinforcing. His father dully watched the two cats go by and giggled to himself a little. The first noise he'd made sense they left the damned city of the well part of their lives. Ilicore walked to the plank door and knocked slightly. A man with fading black hair and a light grey beard answered and beckoned them inside. They made themselves at home and unpacked, though Nathorn had nothing of his own besides the tattered brown jacket and the worn down grey vest and white shirt beneath it, which he wore at all times any way. The man and Ilicore talked all night beside a warm fire that was burning in the cozy den while sipping on Colovian wheat tea. Ilicore requested his be enhanced with some form of alcohol, but the man refused as it was getting late and they needed rest, though deep down it was solely because he feared for Ilicore's battered state of being enough as it was. The man was in fact Heram-Entall Stovarn of Wayrest, the beseeched count's cousin. He had written him over the past few months and the elderly cousin welcomed them in, as he too hurt to see his uncle in such a state, and to see how much it hurt Ilicore was too much. The night came and they slept soundly, though Nathorn began talking in his sleep again, groaning and huffing. The next morning, however, would be the awakening of a grand tale, one that would impale the very outreach of Ilicore's own mental state of being and his very will to interfere with fate and the destiny of his father.


	2. Aspiration

Sect 2: Aspiration (Take 2)

Ilicore awoke slowly, a few beams of light rushing in through the yellow window in his small room. The smell of sweet rolls filled his senses and gave way to equilibrium of alertness and hunger. He awoke and realized he had fallen asleep in his cloths, a very unruly thing of him to do.

'Oh my, I feel trashy.' He said to himself as he headed to his door.

The small brass knob was cool to the touch and shocked his hand. He opened it and went down the narrow hall lined with small sketches of landscapes and into the den where another cozy fire was lit. Nathorn and Heram were sitting at the small table with empty plates. Ilicore took a seat beside his father.

'He eat alright?' He asked Heram as he grabbed a biscuit and a sweet roll.

'Yes, he had quite the appetite actually. Does he usually not eat much?' Heram asked as he took Nathron's empty ceramic plate from him. It was full of crumbs and still had Havishnut jam residue on it.

'Strangely, yes. He usually picks at his food. Perhaps this new atmosphere has made him happier.' He said as he glanced over at her father.

A small quell of tears built up in the corners of his eyes and he lunged his arm around him. A smile arose from Heram and he laughed.

'Yes, the air here in Normar Heights is quite a bit better for the soul. Perhaps it's the lovely single women.' He hinted. Ilicore laughed as he ate.

After they had finished up and talked for a while, Heram decided is was best if Ilicore went off into town to look around and meet with the people while he bathed Nathorn and took him to the river that ran just around the edge of town to sit and relax. Though it was cold out, and the clouds were still black, the air was rather refreshing to Ilicore as he trotted outside of the house, his light brown hair getting spotted with the soft flakes of purely blissful snow. He watched as the people came and went; some laughing and smiling, some silent and frowning. It was a lively city, and quite big. At least, bigger than Iremar. Ilicore did to his fair share of looking through the crowds of women, but none seemed to his taste.

'It's not that I'm picky…' He had been telling a servant of his a few years back as the question arose of why he didn't have a wife or even a girlfriend.

'So what is it then?' The servant asked as he began making Ilicore's bed.

'Oh…I don't know…I think it's the fact that they're not attracted to me.'

The servant laughed a little as he smoothed the edges of the comforter on the bed and placed a few silky light pillows down.

'And what's so funny about that?' He asked with a slight grin.

'Oh, noting…nothing at all…only…you know, I seem to recall a GROUP of very beautiful women who were swooned by the mere scent of you. And I also seem to recall the fact that they were camped out in the sunroom when you told them all promptly to leave. Sounds like they're not attracted to you, all right.' He smiled.

Nathorn entered the room with a white button down shirt on, his collar loose. He was rubbing his stubbly beard, a gigantic smile coming across his face.

'Oh, now. He's just waiting for the right one. Always best to get a good one in the long run than to get an easy one in the short sprint.' He said.

Ilicore laughed. He grabbed his father's shoulder as they walked out of the room, light still pouring in through the windows, casting long shadows down the hall from the framework of the sills. Ilicore zoomed back into reality as he walked through a tavern door, the smell of liquor brining him back into touch. Tears were built in the bottoms of his eyes as he thought of his father and how he used to be so wise and trusting. He took a seat in the dimly lit bar at a small table. One of the legs was crooked, so whenever he moved his arm the table would sway from one side to the other. He didn't mind though, he simply ordered a few shots of the local brandy. Five shots were brought to him by a short Imperial man on a silver platter. The Imperial's eyes look at Ilicore like they knew the pain he was going through.

'That'll be seventy drakes sir. Plus tip, 'course.' He sang.

'Of course.' Ilicore nodded as he rang out the fee.

After the man had collected his due, he left. The shots were in tall, skinny vine-like cups. He slammed one back. The taste of musk entered his mouth…but it was almost a calming musk. It lulled him into a different world. One where his father was at the bar with him, at his side laughing and dancing around with the younger women who were talking and looking about. They were all wearing slim shirts and buckled pants and had long hair. Ilicore wanted to look, but the sensation of a burning going down his throat and into his stomach was derailing him. The aftertaste was actually better than the musk. It was sweet almost. His stomach rumbled as it absorbed the alcohol and he felt a little perk already. Grinning between the other four shots, he took them down. His legs were numb by the third, and by the fifth he couldn't see straight. He staggered over to a beautiful Imperial woman who was eating some fried lamb from the grasslands further south. The air was warm in the bar and it gave Ilicore a rush of confidence. He reached her table, nearly stumbling over four dancing couples in the process and gaining the angry glances of the more sober residents of the tavern, and leaned in next to her. The band began playing a slow song, the drums echoing off of the wooden walls and support beams and the two mandolins strumming together in a rueful symphony.

'H-hey there ma…my lady.' He gagged.

She glanced at him for a moment, her spiritually blue eyes grabbing Ilicore into her area of being. Without taking his eyes off of her he sat in the empty chair across from her. He looked down and saw an empty plate where he was sitting.

''Ere all a-alone and eat…eating that much? My, y-you must have a st...stomach.' Ilicore mumbled on.

Behind him, a larger Imperial man with broad shoulders and long brown hair was looming. He didn't notice as he kept on trying to talk to the woman, but the man's face was growing redder with each passing syllable he uttered to his woman, who was ignoring Ilicore altogether. A tap on the right shoulder stopped Ilicore from talking about raging swarms of mice in the basement of his childhood home and he turned around sloppily, even drunker than before sitting down.

'H-hey there, buddy!' He slurred. 'I…I know she's a pr-pretty lady now…but I'm trying to, ya k-know, get her hands up my blouse…I mean…I mean get my hand up HER bl-' He was cut short by a shocking punch to his face.

He slumped back onto the ground with a large thud, clanging the silverware of the table next to the lady's. The band stopped playing and the tavern grew silent as Ilicore sprouted back up to his feet. All eyes were on him and the barkeeper was waiting with an iron longsword at his side in case they decided to keep their charade up in his bar. Ilicore simply leaned onto the table he was sitting at as the woman got up and went over to the larger Imperial. She hugged his waist.

'C-calm down now!' Ilicore said as his left eye began pulsing wildly. 'I m-mean…it's not like she's THAT pretty.'

The Imperial grunted and swung on Ilicore again. To everyone's surprise and awe, even the Imperial's, Ilicore nimbly dodged the blows even in his hammered state. He laughed as he weaved back and forth before landing a solid punch on the Imperial's throat. He went down to one knee and began gasping for air. Without a second to go by, Ilicore kneed him in the nose several times before landing a final blow on the man's right eye. The larger Imperial simply fell to the ground, unconscious. The whole tavern sat in silence, even the barkeeper who was on his way up to separate the fight simply stood in place with his mouth agape. For a small man, Ilicore was rather brutal. Ilicore simple smiled to the woman and nodded as he half-blindly stumbled for the door.

'M-miss. I think n-next time yo…you aught t-to warn a man b-before h-h-he tries to fancy you t-too much.' He said as he walked past her.

She simply stared at him with her eyes all the way to the door. She wanted to run over to him, though not sure to kiss him and have him take her away, or to smack him for beating the ever-living sense out of her boyfriend. He simply hobbled out of the door and headed back for Heram's house. On the way back he nearly got ran over by four or so guards who were routing on their horses. The blackened sky and the icy winds made it no easier for the drunken man to keep his head, after all. When he got back to the house, he settled in on the cozy rug in front of the fire and fell asleep. No one else was home, and he was far too drunk to try and keep himself occupied.

'I really do like this booze.' He mumbled to himself as he passed out.


	3. Assimilation

Chapter 3: Assimilation (Can We See Up There?)

Colors…blurring colors swirled around and made odd shapes in a boarder of blackness. Ilicore jerked around in his sleep and was awoken by a slender hand. He twitched slightly and opened his eyes. At first, before the blur and haze was gone, he thought it was his father waking him up. But after a few blinks, he realized that it was Heram.

'Rough day in town, was it?' Herman laughed as he carried a small wood loomed basket full of fruit over to the small corner table by the fire place.

'It...' He began.

He rushed up quickly and ran out the front door. Herman tilted his head and walked outside to see what he ran for. He found Ilicore with his head tilted over to the curb. Puking.

'What a waist of that damn good sweet roll this morning.' He said as he spit out the remaining mucus in his dry mouth.

'Oh boy. You drank the brandy, didn't you?' Herman said as he helped Ilicore to his feet.

'Perhaps…' He said somewhat embarrassed as they headed back into the house.

'Never want to drink more than a shot or two of it. Made from weeds in the Wrothgarian Mountains. We grow stalks of it just outside the city, so we can sell it locally. But more than three shots and its bad news.'

'Oh…well…'

'How…how many shots did you have?' Heram sounded worried.

'Eh…five?' He shrugged and smiled slightly.

'FIVE?! ARE YOU KIDDING ME? WHAT ARE YOU TRYING TO DO, KILL YOUSELF?!' Heram ranted.

'No! No. I was just looking to kick back and relax a little…you know, keep my mind focused on women.'

'Oh, yes, NOW it all makes sense.' He grunted as he went into the back hall. He emerged shortly with a blanket.

'What's that for?' Ilicore asked as Heram strung it around his shoulders.

'Sit back and I'll make you some tea. You'll feel better.' He said as he rummaged back into the kitchen, passing under the sleek oak arch that led into the humble cooking quarters.

Ilicore sat and looked longingly into the red flame of a candle that was burning across the room. He got lost in the pluming smoke and the entailing flame. A sensation of grief suddenly flooded him. A few minutes later, Heram walked back from the kitchen with a small glass cup in his hand that was steaming. He saw Ilicore hunched over sobbing quietly. He sighed as he put the cup down on the small end table next to Ilicore's chair and he put an arm around him. Ilicore collapsed into his arms and began to cry.

'I'm so sorry!' He huffed between sobs, thick spit shooting from his mouth.

'It's ok...I'm not mad at you for getting drunk Ilicore.'

'No…not that. I barged into your life. I never talked to you before this incident. I never cared about you…I never-' He began to break down, short breaths breaking between his sobbing as his nose began to run.

Heram smiled gently. 'No, Ilicore. You don't understand…that doesn't matter. We're family, no matter how distant or how long we haven't talked or how little you cared for me before this. What matters is that you're here now, apologizing for the most crude of an excuse for a problem. And that's what matters…to me any way. You care, Ilicore. And I care; else I wouldn't have let you come into this house at all on such a notice. We all need a hair to fall back on in our lives. Look at you…you've lost an entire town because you care for your father so. No man I can ever recall meeting would do that. You have nothing to be sad for.' He said in a calming tone as he patted Ilicore's back.

'No…but I'm dying deep down. My heart is proportionally getting smaller as my lungs grow shorter of breath, and as my mind lessens in extend to living. My tears are meaningless now, as I've cried so many of them for him, for the man who taught me to even walk!' He clenched his fists. 'I've tried…I spend all the gold I could possibly have spent to get him the best attention for his mind and soul, and I've failed. I lost to a fluke in the stream in life, and I am left bobbing without buoyancy or remorse for anything else!'

'I know…I cry for him too. I know you seem all alone…but you can't feel it. You have to realize that at least you're still here to care for him, to show him all the love anyone could possibly show for anyone. To gather all of the most radiant of flowers from the gardens of eternal gratitude that were sewn deep into the soil of love, and to make for him a wreath of your sorrow…you...you...' Heram began to cry as well, though he chocked the tears back behind his shield of strength to show Ilicore. 'You have shown what life is about, my cousin. You have defied the very essence of man and turned the current, channeled your own forethought into helping this man…'

'I want to tell him. I want to thank him and tell him how much he means to me. How I would trek over the dins of the sands of the Alik'r on foot if I had to, so long as I could cure him.' Ilicore said as he struggled to recompose himself.

He sniffed lightly as he straightened his shirt out and shook his head. From the hallway, shrouded in darkness, Nathorn watched with his sturdy his back against the wall. His eyes seemed to seep in the darkness as they darted around madly. He sighed as he took in the scene and he reluctantly treaded back into his small room at the end of the hall. Inside was bare, just a stripped down mattress on the floor. The only window in the room was covered up by the other linings of the bed, leaving the room in a drastically forlorn darkness that seemed to stop just at the door to the room. There were etchings on the wooden floor next to his bed that trailed along the wall and finally up onto the wall itself. A small iron dagger was concealed in his front pocket and he pulled it out slowly. A small red candle was burning in the corner of the room, lighting up the etching on the wall lightly with a fading contrast of shadow. The room pulsed as if it were on fire, like the shadows were living within the walls, screeching and panting to be released. Nathorn ran his fingers over the etchings that were on the wall. His eyes slanted as he began carving again. Runes and ancient hymns concealed deep within the buried ruins of Nirn flowed flawlessly from his hand to the wall. Daedric runs and even more abstract symbols crept to and fro, with small images of distorted beings and places lining around sporadically next to the words. A small line of sweat began to form on his brow, but he let it fall into his eyes without even blinking. He began filling up a small chunk of the wall, sitting down and standing up again as he worked in an almost mindless state. His pupils were giant, his eyes looking like abysmal pools of dread; a certain glimmering magick to them. He finally stopped as he heard footsteps coming to his door. Quickly hiding the dagger again, he sat down on his bed, his wiry white hair resting smooth like silk upon his sweaty head. A knock came and it bounced around the barren room. The light of the candle quickly changed from its blood red to a lulling white. The door opened and a wall of fresh air bombarded the stale and hot air, sending a chill down Nathorn's spine. It was Ilicore. He sat down next to his father and began crying again. His father looked down on him as he fell into his lap. A look for worry came across Nathorn's face as his only child began to writhe in unintended misery. After a few minutes of the shattering qualm, Nathorn took his son by the shoulders. Ilicore was in shock. It was the first sign of anything at all besides dull rants of huffs and sighs in his sleep that he had shown in years. Ilicore's eyes were fixated on the tremendous glamour of his father beginning to show depth of emotion again. Nathorn looked Ilicore back dead in the eyes and muffled out a single word. The single word that would entangle the hoarse threads of mystifying allure and placated chorus with the final foreclosure of the rays of light.

'The Damn Dog.' He whispered.

'W...what?' Ilicore said as he began to shake and stand up. He was answered with the same dull look he had been plagued with ever before that moment.

He was about to run out of the room to Heram when his father lashed his hand out and caught him by the wrist. He led him to the wall where he had been etching. As they passed by the candle, the flame stretched out as if to grab at Ilicore. He got the dagger out again and went to a clear patch of the wall where he grinded a single word into the wood.

Flowerbed.

Ilicore studied the word for what seemed like hours. His head numbly looked back to his father. He ran out of the room and began raving to Heram, who ran back into the room with him shortly.

'He said 'The Damn Dog.' And that's all!' Ilicore said as they studied the room. The scrawlings, the sketches, the runes, all of it.

They looked at the word Flowerbed for a long time before leaving the room. Nathorn had fallen asleep and they didn't want to bother him. Ilicore was in shock. He had just made contact with the man who used to be his idolizing father. They sat down at the kitchen table for diner as they discussed what had happened and what to do while they picked at a hearty beef stew.

'I'm going to find the dog and kill it!' Ilicore said as he slammed his fist down on the wooden table. It rattled the whole floor.

'No, no…flowerbed. There…there was a flowerbed by the river today. It's been there for a while now. He was looking at it, now that I think about it.'

'Then we're going there.' Ilicore said as he gulped down another spoonful of the stew and rose to his feet.

'Not now. Tomorrow. It's dark out, Ilicore. We wouldn't be able to see much, even with a torch.'

'Why do you say that?' He asked as he looked out of one of the two windows in the kitchen.

A flurry of snow whipped back and forth from left to right and left and back again, quickly changing direction.

'Ah…no, I have to go!' He said after a few seconds of thought.

'No, Ilicore. Rest. We both need to.' Heram said.

'Fine. But…tomorrow, we go as soon as we wake up.' He said as he began to take off his coat.

'Deal.' Heram said as he took their bowls.

The night was long and creeping. Ilicore tossed and turned, the words blasting through his mind endlessly at a million miles a minute. He kept thinking about what was going on, what had happened. He finally fell asleep after getting up and almost going out to the river himself. He opened the door and was blasted promptly by a sheet of stinging icy snow. He quickly closed the door with widened eyes.

'Ok…ok, not going out there yet. No…definitely not.' He said as he crawled back into his bed after getting undressed again.

The morning would have to come sooner, and when it did come, Ilicore would wish that maybe it hadn't had come so fast…and maybe never have came at all.


	4. Into the Flowerbed

Chapter 4: Into the Flowerbed (Utilization Of)

With the breaking day there was a white banter of snow over the streets and roofs and everything between the two elevations. The sky was gray, as it had been for the past two days since Ilicore had arrived, and a light fog rolled in from the east, probably protruding from the mouth of the Crypt of Hearts itself. There was a certain tranquility about it all; the whiteness of the horizon, the gray of the sky, and the faded white of the fog. It seemed to all blend together with the light haze of the sun trying desperately to knock through the bustling clouds that got thicker and heavier by the moment. Ilicore was already up and dressed by the time Heram was just barely creaking out of bed. They took to a quick and silent breakfast of juice and toast while the sing whistled abidingly to them, as if it was holding the two by their shoulders and walking them towards the flowerbed. They had thought of taking Nathorn with them, but he was vagrantly ecstatic this morning, and they decided to leave him be with his knife and his wall of will. They left the house, Heram locking the door behind them. As they walked, they realized that they would be looking for somewhat an invisible clue. They walked eastward off from the house, passing by the houses of those still in slumber, their dim candles still flickering and tossing about in the cozy windows that seemed to pulse from the street. Bright yellow and orange windows, everywhere. It all seemed like a checkerboard on the walls to them. To break the silence, Ilicore finally gave out a slight cough which produced a thick stack of steam.

'I think we're best to look for something small, something on the flowers themselves.' He said as they rounded up a block.

The faint slosh and bubbling of the river came into their ears and grew into a dull roar as they neared it. Ilicore began to run for the river, his feet crunching on the dead grass and snow. He ran forward with Heram just behind him.

'Well, looks like there isn't much to look at.' Ilicore said as he huffed from running.

'Of course, I never said it was a live flowerbed. But see, there is something odd about it.' He suddenly realized.

'And that would be…' Ilicore questioned. 'Wait…' His eyes grew wide like a bears' as he looked around.

All of the other plants in the whole town here simply buried in snow. But in the flowerbed, it seemed as if no snow had fallen at all. The rotted brown stalks, the graveyard of the spring courtesans, weren't covered in a flurry of Shor's woe like everything else. Even the ground of the bed was still boring its brown dirt.

'Very odd…' Heram said as they neared it.

They both crouched down on their heels and inspected the flowerbed carefully, scanning it over. It began to snow again, and Ilicore gasped. It was falling everywhere BUT on the flowerbed. Even the light fog that was lofting just above the ground was repelled back at the line of the circle. He reached his hand out from the circle of the flowerbed and snow gently fell upon it. Heram just stood, mouth slightly agape in awe. Ilicore retreated his hand back into the circle.

'Wh…what in the name of Talos is going on here?' Heram said in utter confusion.

'Let's see.' Ilicore said as they both drew near into the bed.

Heram stepped onto a hunk of the flowers and they shattered beneath his feet, a raging crunch bellowing out into the vacant riverside. The flowerbed was quite large and dense, the dead flowers swaying stiffly in the wind looked like brow fingers grasping up at the sky morbidly. Ilicore advanced ahead of Heram, who was looking around before every step he took, into the middle of the flowerbed. He felt something; something that made the hairs on the back of his head stand stiff. He was still rattled by the fact that it wasn't snowing within the sanctum of the flowerbed, but something else seemed to drag him into the center. In the middle of it all was a spot where no flowers were growing. It was a small, perfect, square just big enough for him to step into. He beckoned Heram over, who was still inspecting the ground and plucking a few dead flowers out to look at the roots. They were long and gnarled; every strand almost seeming like it was trying to eat the others. He slowly walked over to Ilicore.

'Look at this…'

'Hmmm…this is odd. Why hasn't anyone else noticed this before?'

'Perhaps the gloomy season has everyone else's minds elsewhere.'

'But this is strange. What should we do?'

'I'm going to stand in it.' Ilicore said as he walked forward, closing his eyes tightly.

He entered the square and held his arms up. After a few moments of nothing happening he slowly opened his right eye. The only sounds that could be heard were the river and the brushes of wind that kicked up randomly.

'Anything happen? Like a divine light, or the ground tremble or anything?' He asked as he lowered his arms.

'Nope.' Heram said as he slightly laughed.

Ilicore sighed as he stepped out of the square. Before he could get out, however, his tripped on something. Not quite sure what it was, as the ground was equal and smooth inside the square, he looked around as he brushed himself off.

'Help me out here.' Ilicore said as an idea struck him.

He got down on his knees and began digging with his hands. Heram nodded and helped too. They both dug fairly deep when they hit something. It was smooth and hard. They scraped the dirt away around the sides to uncover it. It was a small wooden box. They hoisted it up onto the surface. It was indeed small, but heavy. It was engraved with odd runes, much like those carved onto the wall in Nathorn's bedroom back at the house, and had an odd figure on the top of the lid. It was a dog with a heart in its mouth.

'What…what the hell is this?!' Heram said.

The box seemed to taunt them. The sky grew darker as another harsh storm began to come in. The winds took up frightfully and the squealing of an on-coming blizzard took way. They both picked up one side of the box and began to run. If they were caught out in the storm, it would be grim. They ran down the street, the sky growing darker with each passing breath, across another street, past a few bars, and down the side street to the house. A lot of other people were running into their homes, too. Some who were too far away to make it took refuge in their friends' homes or in the taverns. Just as Heram began to look for his keys, the light fog that was slowly trailing across the ground, almost transparent, began to rise. Like smoke from a bonfire, it rose up, thick and deadly.

'Hurry!' Ilicore said as he dropped his end of the chest.

'I…I can't find the key!'

'What!'

'I-I much have dropped it back in the flowerbed!'

'For the love of the NINE!' Ilicore emphasized on the last word. He took off down the street in a furry, Heram trying vainly to stop him.

The winds were against him as he ran down the streets as a blur. Fog was up to his knees now, and it hid the ground well. As he neared the river he took full sprint.

'Now where was he…' He asked himself as he entered the flowerbed again.

Just as before, the fog and snow dared not enter the circle. He looked around the ground, wildly uprooting flowers in the process. He ran to the hole they dug up and looked around. He had a feeling that a joke was being played on him as he quickly dropped onto his knees again, his expensive pants getting stained even more than they already were, and reached into the hole. For a moment he thought he felt a hand try to pull him into the hole. He braced himself on the edge of the pit, but put it off as his adrenaline getting the best of him. The wind was blowing as if the gods themselves were fanning their arms in harmony, trying to push Ilicore off of the face of Nirn. He felt something cold and sharp as he reached the bottom, his whole arm in up to his shoulder. He quickly pulled out, the small silver key to the house in his hand. A vile look of anger crossed his usually timid and deprived face as he rose up, his eyes fixed on the key. He stood for a moment before looking up. Shortly on the horizon he saw a wall moving towards him, over the river.

'What's this?' He perked.

He suddenly realized it was a wall of fog, taller than a house and thicker than a Nord's skull. His eyes dropped into his stomach as he ran, the fog seemingly chasing him. The streets were bare as his head began throbbing with every bounding step he took. His arms shuffled at his sides as he tried to outrun the wall. He began to fall short of breath as he slowed down. He tried to force his legs to move faster, but they simply wouldn't. As he rounded down the street corner onto Heram's street, he fell to his knees wheezing, almost crawling for the door. Just as the fog reached his foot, pulling him into its abysmal glory, its smoky haunting grounds, Heram ran and picked Ilicore up. They ran together as one to the door. Heram got the key from Ilicore's sweaty and clammy palm and shoved it into the lock. He quickly turned the key, the tumblers letting out a sigh of relief, of savories. They bounded into the house, dragging the chest with them, as the fog rolled right on by the door. Heram closed and locked it in one swift motion. It seemed to be night out, when it was only a little past ten. The force of nature was in a decaying mood this day. Nathorn was still soundly asleep. He giggled slightly in his sleep and Ilicore turned to the box which was on the kitchen table. The light from the fire seemed to bound right off of the box, the vexing swirl of runes wishing to stay as hidden as possible. They stared at it silently as the wind growled and the snow piled up still higher. The fog made it impossible to see out of the windows anything other than a blank canvas of white. It seemed as if the three were isolated off from the rest of the world, the darkness accompanying the loneliness and the fear.

'This is all very odd.' Heram said as he sipped on tea.

'Yes…' Ilicore muffled out as he was still slightly catching his breath.

'Do you think we should open it now?'

'Possibly. I mean it's not like we weren't meant to find it. My father knows something, and this something may be the way to cure him. We may be able to use whatever is in this box to bring him back to his old self.'

'Yes…and he was the one looking in that very flowerbed yesterday. I say we open it.'

They both stoop up from their chairs. The sleek wooden table was splintered at the edges and Ilicore got a few slivers of wood in his hand as he pressed against it.

'Who's going to open it?' Asked Heram.

'I'll do it.'

'Ok…yes I find it best that you do it.'

'Of course, just in case, you know, whatever is inside wants to kill whoever disturbs it.' He said as he reached for the lid. Heram hid a smile.

The chest was wooden and polished with a hinged top. At the sides of it were bright silver handles and the hinges were silver as well. It looked brand new, as if the dirt it was piled under had never even touched it. As his hand touched the lid, the fire in the kitchen and the fire in the den went out, a quick wind rushing through the house. They both knew all the windows and doors were closed. The only light came from a single burning candle, the red candle in Nathorn's room. The red glow from behind the door grew brighter; it almost certainly bled through the door and into the kitchen. He tensed his hand up and opened the top.

Through Heram's eyes, as soon as the lid opened, all went black.

Through Ilicore's eyes, however, as soon as the lid opened, the world stopped. The wind stood in the place, the snow hung in the air glistening, and the fog stopped rolling, moving within itself, and laid like a solid stone wall.


End file.
